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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28701396">Everything About You That Hurts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/phancon/pseuds/1833outboy'>1833outboy (phancon)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bandom, Fall Out Boy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>COVID-19, Denial of Feelings, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Quarantine, Roommates, Sexual Confusion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:54:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,559</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28701396</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/phancon/pseuds/1833outboy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Desperate, horny and lonely during quarantine, roommates Pete and Patrick start to fool around together, no strings attached. Obviously they’re not about to do anything stupid like catch feelings. None of this means anything. They're friends. And besides which, they’re both still totally straight. </p><p>Right?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello! it's been so long since i posted a new work, i almost forgot how posting on ao3 works. </p><p>this fic is partially based on <a href="https://1833outboy.tumblr.com/post/626962198716104704/e-v-roslyn-gay-irl-gay-irl-and-they-were">this reddit post.</a> as you can probably tell by the tags, it's set in 2020 during the pandemic, with roommates pete and patrick quarantined together. i've tagged covid too, though i should add that when it comes to the pandemic, this deals more with the isolation of quarantine and the stress of everything on top more than it does the actual illness (for the record: nobody in this fic will get sick). anyway, if any of that might bother you, please turn back now and take care of yourself first. </p><p>ok. now for the fic.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You know, Patrick hadn’t thought retail could get much more depressing, miserable or soul crushing than it already had been for the past four years he’d been subjected to it. Of course, there was quite a lot Patrick <em> hadn’t thought </em>in general until 2020 waltzed in and took a shit all over his life and the lives of everybody he knows. (And the lives of everyone he doesn’t know, if his twitter feed is any indicator.) Yet here he is. Hating his job more than he ever thought possible. </p><p>He thinks, for maybe the fiftieth time this month, <em> I’ll quit. I’m gonna quit. I’ll quit so fucking soon. </em>But then as he’s slipping off his shoes and pulling off his mask and his coat, Patrick looks around the tiny apartment he shares with Pete. This tiny living space where the cupboards are close to bare and the washing machine won’t work properly and the AC is still busted, and… well. Who the fuck is he kidding? He needs this job, now more than ever. </p><p>After disposing of his mask, showering and changing into clean clothes, Patrick finally collapses onto the sofa next to Pete, the dull glare of some God awful b-movie coming from the TV. He closes his eyes and considers letting himself fall asleep. The only thing stopping him is the knowledge that he’ll wake up tomorrow morning in what will feel like no time at all, at which point he’ll have to go to work again.  </p><p>“That bad, huh?” Pete’s voice says from somewhere to his right. He feels the press of something soft and wet against his stomach and knows Hemmy has come to greet him, drooling all over his lap. Patrick lets his hand brush against the fur, relaxing just a touch in the process.  </p><p>He keeps his eyes closed as he says miserably, “I got yelled at for ten minutes today because I told a dude he couldn’t try on a pair of jeans because of the virus. Then I was trying to help this fucking Karen who would not accept that we didn’t have some stupid specific socks she wanted, and her baby threw up on my shoes. And we had a late delivery, so I had to chase <em> that </em>up all afternoon. <em>Then</em> I had to wait around twenty minutes after closing because Spencer had a cash difference and Bob wouldn’t let anyone leave—”  </p><p>“I thought you were kind of late—”</p><p>“And there were like six people on the bus home who weren’t wearing masks. Including a dude who was either sick with something or on his fifth bottle of something.” He sighs and opens his eyes. Pete is staring at him from the other side of the sofa, smile soft and eyes sympathetic. Patrick has put his socked feet up onto the middle of the sofa at some point during that rant and Pete has responded without words by pulling them onto his lap and rubbing gently at his soles. Patrick lets himself relax into it. He didn’t even realise how much tension he’d been holding in all day. “Do you think if I faked a hernia I’d get to stay home tomorrow?”</p><p>“I dunno. Maybe. I’ll vouch for your ill health if it’ll help. I’ll say you’ve been in complete agony, you haven’t stopped complaining. It wouldn’t even be a lie.”</p><p>Patrick kicks him gently and playfully in the thigh. “<em>Thank you</em>, asshole.”</p><p>Pete grins and glances back at the bad b-movie on TV; some truly terrible looking explosions are lighting up the screen. Apparently bored of both of them, Hemmy wanders off, probably to the radiator in Pete’s room where he likes to curl up on top of some old blankets Pete’s given him. </p><p>“What about you?” Patrick asks. “You finish the, uh— the article about that match…? The Milky Way... Lakers or whatever…? And Kansas?”</p><p>Pete gives Patrick an exasperated look. “Are you talking about the soccer game between LA <em> Galaxy </em> and Kansas City that I was writing about?” </p><p>“See, I knew it had something to do with space,” Patrick points out, and awkwardly dodges a cushion Pete throws at him. </p><p>“I can’t believe we’ve known each other over a decade and you still know so little about my favourite sport. Or any sport.”</p><p>“You’re the only one here who writes about it for a living.” And plays it, he thinks, but doesn’t say. Because besides the odd game of tennis, Pete hasn’t been able to go and play a proper team game since before the quarantine hit, and Patrick knows it bothers him more than he lets on. “I did my time with sports in PE. It’s not a period I want to repeat.”   </p><p>“Unbelievable.”</p><p>“But did you, though? Finish it?”</p><p>“I did,” Pete says. “And I’d tell you all about it if I thought you’d understand or care about a single word.”</p><p>“Yeah, don’t bother.”</p><p>“I was on a zoom meeting this afternoon too, with Andy,” Pete adds. “Marvis met Hemmy— I mean, they sat on our laps and stared at each other through the screen, it was pretty cute.”</p><p>Patrick smiles. “Hard at work, huh?”</p><p>“Fuck off, we were working too.”</p><p>Patrick laughs, but decides not to prod any further on that front. Mainly because Pete is still massaging his feet and he’d really hate for that to stop. There’s quiet for several minutes as the both of them turn their attention to the movie. It’s pretty awful all round, truth be told. Campy, terrible special effects, awful acting, unintentionally hilarious. Patrick can kind of see why he’d put it on.</p><p>“Hey, Pete?”</p><p> Pete doesn’t look away from the TV. “Mm?”</p><p>“What the hell is this?”</p><p>“Oh, uh. I think it’s called Independents’ Day.”</p><p>“What?” Patrick frowns at the screen. There’s some dude on the screen, giving a badly worded speech; kind of handsome, but a truly terrible actor. Not one he recognises, that’s for sure. “It’s been a while, but this is not like anything I remember from Independence Day. Where the fuck is Will Smith?” </p><p>“No,<em> Independents’ </em>Day, Trick. With a t.”</p><p>Patrick snorts. “Your choice in movies is usually better than this. What happened to Terminator?” Pete’s been watching Terminator almost everyday for a month now; it’s the kind of single film watching persistence Patrick hasn’t seen since he was a kid. </p><p>Pete raises an eyebrow. “You told me to try something new.”</p><p>“I was kidding. I just meant like… Terminator 2.”</p><p>Pete grins at him. “And you accuse me of watching the same shit over and over.”</p><p>“What? You know that’s the best one!”</p><p>“I know,” Pete says. “But you said you wanted something new, dude. This is what you get.”</p><p>Patrick pulls a face. “I changed my mind. Never try new things ever again.”</p><p>“Too late.” </p><p>Patrick sighs, stretching his feet out. Pete seems to have finished rubbing his feet; he’s just gripping Patrick’s ankle now, without even seeming to realise it, thumb tapping Patrick’s fibula like he’s waiting for a drum beat. Patrick would complain, but it feels kinda nice; he watches Pete watch the movie for a minute or so. “You know,” he says finally. “When I was a kid, I used to watch Beauty and the Beast over and over again, it would drive my mom crazy. It was all I’d watch. Then after six months of this, the tape broke. No warning, just suddenly it was totally busted. I’m still convinced she had something to do with it.” </p><p>“Ice cold.”</p><p>“I know, right? I guess it was annoying her. I should’ve mixed it up.”</p><p>“Lame. If you love something so much, why wouldn’t you keep coming back to it, right?”</p><p>“I don’t know. Boredom? Too much of a good thing gets old.”</p><p>“Ptf. Not when it’s a <em> great </em>thing.” Pete sighs. “I already miss Terminator.”</p><p>“Better stop trying new things.”</p><p>Pete smiles, turning back to face Patrick, eyes glinting. “You’re not gonna break my tape?”</p><p>Patrick rolls his eyes. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t just stream it on Hulu if I broke anything.”</p><p>Pete laughs. “Yeah. This is pretty funny though,” says Pete, nodding to the screen.</p><p>It is indeed an unintentionally funny movie for the most part, though it’s somehow terribly dull in other parts. About an and a half later, an empty pizza box laid out on the coffee table with several empty beer bottles, Pete is flicking through channels again. “You’ve given me a Disney craving,” he tells Patrick as he opens Disney Plus. </p><p>Patrick is already half asleep thanks to all that pizza and fully weighing the pros and cons of turning in for the night at 7:30pm. God, when did he turn into a seventy year old man?  </p><p>Pete is still flicking through movies several minutes later when he asks, thoughtful, “Hey, Patrick. Marry, fuck, kill: Aladdin, Hercules, uhh, John Smith from Pocahontas — go.” </p><p>This wakes up Patrick enough to frown, confused. “That’s not fair, they’re all dudes.”</p><p>Pete rolls his eyes. “So? It’s a game, bro. We can pretend we’re gay for like, two minutes. And no pandemic,” he adds. “We can fuck without fear. What a concept.”</p><p>Patrick considers this for a moment. “Okay, well. I’ve gotta kill John Smith, right? He sucked in real life and Pocahontas is like, the worst movie on that list.”</p><p>“Fair.”</p><p>“So, I guess I’ll fuck Hercules and marry Aladdin,” he says after a little deliberation. “What about you?” </p><p>Pete is silent for a long moment, brow furrowed like it’s an incredibly difficult choice. He sighs dramatically. “I can’t decide. Smith can die, but I think I’ll fuck <em> and </em>marry Aladdin and Hercules together.”</p><p>“Pretty sure that’s not how the game works.”</p><p>“My game, I’ll do what I want. Might even fuck John Smith too, before I kick him off that cliff.”</p><p>“So, you <em> want </em>to fuck them?” Sometimes Pete confuses the hell out of Patrick. </p><p>“I’m being gay for two minutes here <em> and </em>there’s no threat of disease. I’ll fuck all the Disney Princes I want, dude.”</p><p>Patrick snorts and glances back at the screen. He doesn’t really want to identify why, but this conversation is making him more uncomfortable than he’d care to admit. Pete seems to finally be settling on watching Tarzan and it’s only eight-thirty, but Patrick’s having trouble keeping his eyes open. Stifling a yawn, he sits up, not quite ready to remove his feet from Pete’s lap yet, but knowing he can’t sleep here. “Think I’m gonna turn in.”</p><p>As Patrick predicted, Pete immediately starts to pout. “Seriously? Dude, c’mon… My grandma stays up later. Would you change your mind if I put Beauty and the Beast on instead?”</p><p>“No, Pete—”</p><p>“What about Hercules? Get you horny instead of sleepy.” Pete grins, all too cocky.  </p><p>Patrick snorts. “Shut up. Those two minutes have passed. And I’ve had a long day. We can’t all get afternoon naps.”  </p><p>“You got me there.” Pete sighs. Patrick knows he categorically cannot deny that he took a half hour nap at some point this afternoon. “Wait, but. Before you go, I do actually have to talk to you about something.”</p><p>That’s never a good sign. “Oh?”</p><p>“After my nap earlier, I stubbed my toe.” He’s giving Patrick a certain <em> look </em>.</p><p>“Oh… kay?”</p><p>“I could’ve tripped and totally broken my foot or something.”</p><p>“Uh.”</p><p>“Can you guess why?”</p><p>It soon becomes clear just why Pete’s giving Patrick that look. His eyes dart to the corridor behind Patrick where their bedrooms face one another, but Patrick knows that he’s referring more specifically to the box sitting directly outside of Patrick’s bedroom. </p><p>It’s not an especially exciting box on the outside, nor is it filled with anything particularly outlandish or abnormal. There’s a little bag of makeup inside, a can of deodorant, a phone case, a hair brush, a necklace, a tooth brush and a couple of framed photographs. None of these things belong to Patrick.   </p><p>“Sorry, I’ll… I’ll move it, I guess,” he says, not sure he will. He only moved it from his bedroom to just outside his bedroom because seeing those things in his room (even while trapped inside a box) sends such a spike of uneasy sadness to his chest, they’re really better off in the hallway.</p><p>“Are you gonna call her?” He only gets a shrug in reply. “Patrick. If you’re not gonna give it all back, just—”</p><p>“Okay!” he says, louder than he means to. “Okay,” he repeats, quieter. “Just… I don’t know if she’ll even want them back...”</p><p>It’s been almost three months since Abby, a woman Patrick once considered his whole world, called him at 1am, gasping through sobs, to let him know that she’d just slept with someone else — to let him know that she was leaving him. Three months is probably a long time to still have her stuff neatly packed up in a wooden box he keeps telling himself he’ll give back to her. She hasn’t asked for any of it; Patrick’s pretty sure she’s doing just fine without it all, honestly. She’s almost definitely bought a new toothbrush by now, which embarrassingly was the realisation that caused him to dump the stupid box in the hallway where he couldn’t see it.</p><p>Pete sighs, rubbing a hand along the length of Patrick’s shin. Patrick had been here on this very sofa when he’d got the phone call, watching some dumb Marvel movie with Pete while Abby went out for her friend’s birthday. He still remembers the aftermath of the phone call, Pete holding him close against his chest and saying throatily, “Fuck her. It's okay."</p><p>"Stay," Patrick had whispered desperately, the thought of remaining in this apartment alone absolutely terrifying.</p><p>"Of course," Pete replied immediately. "As long as you need.” </p><p>That was back in February; Patrick knows Pete hadn’t really been intending to stay <em>this</em> long, but well. The lockdown hit and neither of them could really afford to live alone since Pete’s hours got cut and Patrick’s second job singing at local bars on weekends was no longer feasible.  </p><p>Besides, he likes living with Pete. Being roommates feels like it did when they bunked together in college. It feels... right. It makes it easier to forget the life he was building with Abby.     </p><p>“Sorry,” Pete says quietly. “I just don’t think leaving them here is helping.” </p><p>“No, you’re right.” He shakes his head. “I don’t…” He’s not sure how to explain that it’s not that he wants to get back together with Abby. It’s that he doesn’t want to get rid of the only things left that were ever evidence that they even shared all those years together. “I’ll call her,” he promises. “We can maybe meet up somewhere outside and I’ll give her that box. I just…” </p><p>Pete’s eyes soften. “I know,” he says. And he does. Patrick knows he does. Because that’s the thing about Pete, he always understands Patrick perfectly. Sometimes they don’t even need to talk for Pete to just <em> get </em>Patrick. </p><p>“I’ll move it tomorrow,” Patrick promises, and he finally moves his legs from on top of Pete’s.</p><p>Before he can get up and head to his bedroom though, Pete pulls at Patrick’s wrist. “Stay here a bit?” </p><p>Patrick frowns, and he’s about to say no, honestly, he’s really tired, and the thought of climbing into his warm bed is very inviting, but… </p><p>Well, when Pete looks at him like that, Patrick is suddenly reminded that although he hates his job, he does at least get to interact with people during the day. Truly awful people most of the time, of course, but his co-workers are alright, and he’s not lonely during the day. He’s tired and angry and sometimes scared, but he’s not usually lonely, exactly. He has Joe and the other guys at work, even if they're often trying to keep a distance away, and he has Pete and Hemmy at home.</p><p>Pete though. Pete’s expression bleeds loneliness, and Patrick is reminded that Pete spends all day alone while Patrick works his ten hour shifts; besides the odd zoom call, he has no one but Hemmy to talk to most the time. A vast difference to the Pete of several months ago, who craved attention so much he’d throw big parties several times a month. This Pete still craves attention, he’s just limited on who he can get that from now, when he can get that.   </p><p>Patrick relaxes back into the couch, scooting closer to Pete and rest his head on Pete’s shoulder. “Fine,” he says through a sigh, as though this isn't a very easy choice now. “But I can’t be held responsible for falling asleep on you. Even if you are super lumpy.”</p><p>Pete chuckles, the sound reverberating against Patrick as he leans against Pete’s throat. His aftershave has that familiar, comforting scent only Pete has. It's nice. Pete starts flicking through movies again. “So, <em> Hercules</em>?” </p><p>Patrick yawns. “Sure, why not?”</p><p>“Get you good and horny.”</p><p>“I’m not gay, Pete,” Patrick reminds him sleepily. “Those two minutes are over.”</p><p>“I know, I know. Me neither,” says Pete with a sigh. “More’s the pity, huh?” </p><p>"Mm," Patrick murmurs, and he sort of wishes it <em>was</em> true. It would be easy, he thinks with his eyes half closed, to fall for someone like Pete. If he were into dudes like that. </p><p>It doesn't take Patrick long to fall asleep, way before the movie ends, and he wakes up in bed later with little memory of how he got there beyond the fuzzy impressions of somebody guiding him under the covers before slipping off his glasses and giving him a gentle kiss on the forehead.</p><p>It was definitely Pete, but the kiss seems a bit new. He figures he must’ve dreamt that part.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It’s weird for a straight dude to offer a hand job to his straight best friend, right?</p><p>It’s weirder that he wants to do this.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patrick gets home early the following day and after he’s rid himself of any potential germs, upon finding no Pete in the kitchen or living area, he heads for Pete’s bedroom.</p><p>This... is perhaps where the problems really start.</p><p>He does knock. It’s not like he’s being deliberately invasive or anything. It’s not like he expects—</p><p>Well, what he <em> does </em> expect is for Pete to be sleeping. Since quarantine left him working homebound and more prone to getting zero sleep at night, Pete has often been found taking afternoon naps in between bursts of productive writing. But whenever he <em> does </em>sleep this late, Pete had always insisted that Patrick wake him when he gets home, not wanting to be left groggy, not wanting Patrick to eat dinner without him. </p><p>So, that’s why Patrick knocks once and opens the door without waiting for an answer, expecting to find Pete lying out on his bed, cuddling up against a pillow and snoring softly, waiting for Patrick to gently shake him awake. </p><p>But Patrick doesn’t get a sleeping Pete. Instead, he’s greeted with a Pete sitting up on his bed, alert, with his laptop perched in front of him, pants slid down his hips and a hand gripping his very visible, very hard cock. </p><p>For a moment, Patrick can only stare, hypnotised by the way Pete strokes the length of it while he watches the screen, cheeks flushed, breaths fast. Then Pete turns his head, and Patrick feels a pair of horrified golden eyes on him. </p><p>“Oh, guh, soh—” Patrick has forgotten how to form words. “Sorry, shit. S- Sorry. I— Shit.” He still isn’t looking away. He can still <em> see Pete’s dick </em>, even as Pete struggles to shove it back into his pants. Oh, god, he needs to look the fuck away.  </p><p>Patrick closes his eyes in time to hear Pete swear loudly. There’s a crash as either Pete or his laptop or both fall from the bed. “Patrick,” he barks, “Jesus Christ.” The panic in his voice is obvious.</p><p>“Sorry!” Patrick calls again, and manages to turn and hurry from the room, eyes still closed. He can’t seem to open them now they’re closed, locked shut like he’s still standing in that doorway, though ironically he can still see the image of Pete’s cock standing proud and pink and— </p><p>In his hurry to his own bedroom opposite, with his eyes still shut, Patrick’s foot connects heavily with something solid and in the way. He loses balance immediately and feels his face slam into the wall before he slips to the floor. The pain that erupts from his nose is almost enough to make the image of Pete’s penis disappear from his mind entirely. It certainly wills his eyes to quickly shoot open.</p><p>“Ah, fuck, shit—” He clasps a hand over his nose and feels blood against his fingertips. He doesn’t have to check to know it was probably the box of useless shit Abby left that tripped him up. “Ah, shit, <em> ow— </em>”</p><p>“Jesus,” says Pete, suddenly right in front of him. Patrick doesn’t look down, but he’s pretty sure Pete’s cock is no longer visible. Probably. Hopefully. “I fucking told you to move this shit,” Pete snaps. He sounds mad, which makes sense considering what just happened, but still. He could show a little more bedside manner while Patrick actively bleeds all over their disgusting purple carpet.</p><p>Pete helps Patrick to his feet while Patrick tips his head back and gazes forlornly at the grey-white ceiling. He feels himself pushed none too gently onto the sofa in the living room; there’s a couple more muttered curses from Pete, and then silence. Patrick is suddenly very alone and stares up above him for a few long moments, wondering if Pete’s retreated back to his room in angry humiliation. He closes his eyes, nose continuing to throb. </p><p>But Pete is back only seconds later with something soft and wet that he presses down against Patrick’s nostrils.</p><p>“Unbelievable,” he says, still sounding pissed. “You’re lucky this isn’t broken. I could <em> hear </em>your nose hit the wall from in my room.” </p><p>Patrick manages to glance down at Pete’s face without moving his head much, and as he does it occurs to him through the pain and frustration that perhaps the lines of his frown are conveying more tense concern than anger at the violated privacy. </p><p>“Sorry,” Patrick mumbles nasally. He’s not sure if he means for walking in on the masturbation (that would be the fourth or fifth apology, right?) or for tripping over his ex’s stupid box.</p><p>Pete settles down next to him on the sofa, soft cloth still firmly held against Patrick’s nose, and meets Patrick’s eyes. His frown softens. “‘Guess I should apologise for… panicking you.”</p><p>Patrick winces. “God, just.” He closes his eyes for a second, breathing through the throbbing pain at his nose. “Don’t. I shouldn’t have walked in—“</p><p>“I <em> thought </em> I still had two hours 'til you got home,” Pete mutters, cheeks tinted pink.</p><p>“It was a six ‘til three shift today. Sorry, uh. Switched with Joe.”</p><p>Pete nods. “Right. You should let me know these things.”</p><p>“Noted,” Patrick replies, settling his head back against the cushions. “Um, for the future.”</p><p>Pete snorts, shaking his head as he wipes the remnants of blood from below Patrick’s nose. It seems to have stopped bleeding, at least. “I’m genuinely sorry I traumatised you with just a glance at my dick.”</p><p>Patrick makes a strange, wild sound from the back of his throat in some protest to that. “I was not <em> traumatised </em>,” he says.</p><p>Pete smiles, small and teasing. “You saw my dick and keeled over. You were either traumatised or overwhelmed with lust.”</p><p>“I didn’t keel over! I tripped!” Patrick can feel his face growing warm. He hopes the cloth and the blood are covering up his reddened cheeks. </p><p>“Keeled over and started bleeding from the nose like an anime schoolgirl. Gotta be lust.”</p><p>“I tripped and hit my <em> face </em>. You— You were the one masturbating at 3.45 on a Wednesday afternoon!”</p><p>Pete raises an eyebrow. “There’s a time limit on jerking off now?”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>Pete grins and pulls the cloth away from Patrick’s nose. “I think you’re okay. The bleeding stopped,” he says, and indeed, the throbbing pain has dulled somewhat. Patrick feels safe enough to lower his head back, touching his tender nose. Pete watches him for a moment before asking, “Can I be honest with you?”</p><p>Patrick doubts Pete can surprise him more than he already inadvertently has today already, so he nods. “I’d be bummed if you weren’t.”</p><p>“I have not hooked up with anybody since February. Tinder is great for sharing pictures, but like, otherwise it’s pretty useless right now… My sex life is in the gutter, Rick. The gutter.”</p><p>Patrick frowns. He’s well aware that Pete had a lot of hookups before the quarantine hit. Meeting girls in bars, at parties, through those dumb apps, the mutual friends he had some sort of benefits situation with… Pete hasn’t had a long term girlfriend in years, but he was definitely no stranger to regular sex. Before March, at least. </p><p>“Well,” says Patrick. “Yeah. You and every other single person in the world right now.” </p><p>Pete leans back against the sofa with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m unreasonably fucking horny, dude. That was not the first time I’ve jerked off today. Or the second.” </p><p>“Dude—”</p><p>“Sorry. I know you’re probably not bothered about that side of the lack of physical contact yourself...” </p><p>Patrick frowns. “You don’t think I’ve been horny?” he asks. He’s not sure why he wants to continue on this topic. Everything about this should be making him crawl with embarrassment. Surprisingly though, it isn’t making him feel as uncomfortable as he’d expect. It does make him feel weird in a way he can’t really identify, but he’ll leave that to examine later. He susposes he and Pete talk about everything and anything under the sun anyway; their masturbatory habits isn’t that strange.  </p><p>Pete looks a little surprised. “Yeah?”</p><p>Patrick rolls his eyes. “I dated Abby for almost five years. I got used to a regular sex life, I’m not gonna lie.” He glances away. It still sort of hurts sometimes, thinking about her. Thinking about the things he misses.  </p><p>Pete frowns, as he tends to do when Abby is brought up. “Oh.”</p><p>Patrick sighs. “It sucks. But that’s the rules. We can make a date with someone other than our own right hands after this stupid thing is over.” </p><p>“Well,” says Pete slowly, thoughtfully, but then he stops. </p><p>Patrick looks over at him; Pete’s watching Patrick with a strange and careful expression. “What?”</p><p>“Just, uh.” Pete clears his throat, eyes darting away. “Forget it.”</p><p>“No, what? C’mon, you said <em> well </em>.”</p><p>“<em> Well… </em> me and you don’t have to socially distance. We live together.”</p><p>Patrick stares. His brain is struggling to connect that with the state of their sex lives. He says slowly, “Okay.” </p><p>“Okay,” Pete repeats, a blush colouring his face. “So… we— I mean, we could… Just, if you wanted. If you were as... horny as me. You know? But if not, don’t even worry. If not, then I’m kidding.” </p><p>Patrick is still confused, even more so the pinker Pete’s cheeks become. It’s so rare, to not understand what Pete means. Even at his most incoherent, Patrick still usually understands what Pete is trying to say. He wonders if he’s had a stroke that’s causing him to miss half of this conversation. Then he wonders if Pete has. “What?”</p><p>“I don’t mean <em> gay </em>sex!” Pete then says, very loudly. This is for some reason the key twisting in the lock, a sudden recognition as Patrick understands just what Pete is implying they do. “I just mean, like—”</p><p>“Handjobs?” </p><p>“Yeah!” says Pete, apparently relieved that Patrick is on the same wavelength now and not immediately repulsed. “Yes, like, ‘cause it’d be better. You know it’d be so much better than doing it alone. I mean, it obviously wouldn’t be gay, you know, ‘cause we’re both straight. It’d just be like mutual masturbation, except... we could jerk each other off. We wouldn’t do anything else.”</p><p>“Um.” Patrick’s brain is now working overtime as he considers this. It’s somehow tempting. He is really horny. Pete’s dick pops into his mind again, unprompted, unbidden, and rather than making Patrick recoil and want to tell Pete to get lost, it instead only solidifies his decision that this is actually... maybe not a good idea, but definitely one he wants to pursue. “Okay,” he says quietly, slowly. “Yeah, that… I mean, you’re right. It wouldn’t be gay, it’d be just— helping each other out.” </p><p>Pete grins. “Exactly, it’s genius.” He sits up a little straighter. “You should probably… wash your face before we do this though.”</p><p>“Oh. Um. Yeah.” Patrick tentatively touches his nose, which doesn’t really hurt much anymore but is no doubt smeared pink with quickly drying blood. Pete is still watching him. It takes a moment to realise he’s waiting. “Wait, we’re doing this <em> right </em>now?”</p><p>Pete raises an eyebrow. “I mean, you did interrupt me like, ten minutes ago. And we can order take out after.” He says it like they’re about to put on a good video game to play together.  </p><p>“Right,” Patrick says, and he gets to his feet. He can feel Pete’s eyes on his back as he makes his way to the bathroom. </p><p>He doesn’t want to spend too much time cleaning himself up, truth be told, because the longer he spends in this bathroom the bigger the chance he has that Pete is going to realise how dumb this whole thing is. Patrick is going to walk back into the living room and Pete will laugh and tell him that actually, this is weird as fuck and probably a bad idea and maybe they should both just forget any of the last fifteen minutes ever happened.   </p><p>Patrick stands in front of the mirror for a few seconds; his face is now free of blood, though his nose does appear slightly pink. He should probably be thinking about what a bad idea this all is himself. It’s <em> weird </em> , surely. It’s <em> weird </em>for a straight dude to offer a hand job to his straight best friend, right?</p><p>It’s weirder that he <em> wants </em>to do this.   </p><p>Patrick makes his way back out into the living room where Pete is still sitting on the sofa, just where Patrick left him. His button and fly are undone now, though his dick remains in his pants. </p><p>Patrick opens his mouth, about to do the sensible thing and tell him that this is all a bad idea and he’s just gonna leave Pete to masturbate on his own without interruption. That’s what he’s about to say. That’s the sensible thing to say. Unfortunately, Patrick has never been as sensible as some might suspect. So instead, he looks at Pete and he hears himself say, “So, uh. We doing this or what?”</p><p>Pete’s expression immediately relaxes into a smile, and Patrick realises he was probably wondering, like Patrick, if he was going to come in from the bathroom and call the whole thing off. “Get over here, Stump.”  </p><p>Patrick goes over. He doesn’t waste time once on the couch; not wanting the stutter of awkwardness that could come with being hesitant, his hands go straight for Pete’s thighs. Pete must have a vivid imagination because he’s half hard and Patrick has barely touched him yet. Probably the porn he was watching earlier. </p><p>Pete’s eyes widen ever so slightly, like Patrick just completed a dare Pete wasn’t expecting him to pull off. He leans back against the sofa cushions, pulling at Patrick’s shirt until he’s lying on top of Pete, head above his neck. This isn’t even a new position for them; the only thing different is the whereabouts of their roaming hands. </p><p>“Keep your eyes off my dick,” Patrick warns Pete, his hand going into Pete's pants, below his bartskull tattoo, finding coarse hair. “Let’s keep our eye line above the shoulders.”</p><p>“So, you can see mine, but I can’t see yours? That seems—” Pete begins, and then sucks in a sharp breath as Patrick’s hand brushes further downward, cupping the curve of his balls.  </p><p>“I didn’t <em> want </em>to see yours,” Patrick reminds him. There’s a thrill like no other, one he can’t understand or deny, upon hearing Pete gasp like that, seeing Pete’s eyes darken and widen simultaneously. Perhaps it would be better if they were looking at each other’s cocks, so he wouldn’t have to see Pete like this. So he wouldn’t know how Pete looks with Patrick's hand around his dick. </p><p>“You wanna feel it though,” says Pete quietly, wetting his lips, and then his hands are finally slipping into Patrick’s boxers, stroking the length of Patrick’s cock, starting gentle, growing in pace. “Right?” </p><p>Patrick swallows thickly, and meets Pete’s eyes; there’s a pause, unlike any other moment he’s ever had with Pete, wherein they both watch each other, with their hands around each other’s cocks, and Patrick fights the urge to laugh, not from embarrassment but from a strange and impossible glee. This is very weird. </p><p>But what is truly weird is that it doesn’t feel nearly as weird as it should.   </p><p>Pete breaks the moment first, half a dark chuckle and half a groan as Patrick’s strokes become faster, fingers brushing against his tip. Patrick can feel his own breathing speed up as Pete’s own fingers pull him apart inch by inch. He ducks his head, panting against Pete’s shoulder, unable to help the moan as he breathes out, “Fuck,” and feels more than he hears Pete’s answering groan. It sounds like he says Patrick’s name. Patrick has to pretend that’s not what he heard though, couldn't be. </p><p>He looks up in time to see Pete’s face just after he comes. Cheeks flushed and eyes closed, he looks like he did when Patrick first walked in on him more than half an hour ago, except worse, better, more undone, a Pete that Patrick’s <em> never </em>seen before.  </p><p>Patrick follows him seconds later, the noises from Pete’s mouth alone enough to make Patrick fall apart, slumped forward against Pete’s neck. He hears his own breaths, hears Pete’s heartbeat, but the quiet amongst it seems to grow pointed, tense. Before anything even close to panic can settle in Patrick’s gut though, there’s a different, low, odd sound coming from Pete.  </p><p>Pete is laughing, Patrick realises, and hearing it — feeling his low chuckles reverberate onto Patrick’s chest, shaking them both, he feels himself begin to laugh as well. It’s entirely infectious.</p><p>Patrick watches the crinkle around Pete’s eyes, the slump of his shoulders, and knows he feels what Patrick feels: that sleep-happy high of sharing an orgasm with somebody you care about held close to you. (Is it weird that this somebody is Pete, and not a girlfriend? Patrick can’t think about that right now.)</p><p>“That was fun, huh?” Pete says after their chuckles have subsided. His hands have moved from inside Patrick’s pants to around his back. Patrick feels like he needs those hands there, like Pete’s holding him in place in case he floats away, up onto the ceiling. </p><p>“Yeah,” Patrick admits through half a smile. “I thought it’d be kinda—” He stops, bites his bottom lip. <em> Weird </em> , is what he wants to say. But well, maybe it <em> was </em>kinda weird for Pete... </p><p>“No, it was good,” says Pete, like he can read Patrick’s mind, hear Patrick’s thoughts. “It was fun. Nothing wrong with friends having fun, right?”  </p><p>“Yeah. I mean, way better than jerking off on my own.”</p><p>When Patrick looks up from Pete’s shoulder, Pete’s grin is cat like. “Exactly. Doesn’t have to mean a thing.”   </p><p>Patrick smiles back. There’s an odd dull pit in the bottom of his stomach, perhaps anxiety, but he does his best to ignore it. He spots the take out menus stacked on the coffee table and decides to change the subject entirely. “What food do you wanna order?”</p><p>“I was thinking Chinese?”</p><p>“Sounds good.”</p><p>“Yeah, but uh.” Pete frowns, shifting under Patrick a little awkwardly. “We should probably shower before we do anything.”</p><p>“Shower?” Unbidden, an image pops into his head of the two of them in the shower together. Naked. And alone.</p><p>His mind rebels immediately, clearly that’s an obscene idea, but for some reason his once soft cock perks up a little in interest. </p><p>Pete raises his eyebrows, chuckling at Patrick’s bewilderment. “Yeah, dude. I think we both need one. I’ll let you go first?”</p><p>“<em> Oh </em> .” Pete clearly means <em> separate </em>showers. “Right. Showers. One at a time. Um, I’ll... go first, yeah.”</p><p>Pete is giving Patrick an odd, measured sort of look when he detaches himself from Pete’s chest and gets to his feet. Patrick can’t quite place it, which is disturbing. Patrick can place all of Pete’s expressions, always, so the fact that he’s gone twice today not being able to immediately read him is extremely unsettling.</p><p>Patrick does not do what he normally does while showering — that is, singing some Otis Redding loud enough that he has to close the window in this three story apartment — but instead he stares at Pete’s bottle of Old Spice and does a bad job of not overthinking.</p><p>That pit in the bottom of his stomach is back, ravaging his guts and trying to convince him that mistakes were made.</p><p>He’s not gay, obviously. They didn’t do anything other guys that experiment haven’t done, right? There wasn’t even any kissing involved. Hardly worthy of a sexuality crisis. </p><p>He enjoyed that whole experience more than he thought he might, sure, but… </p><p>Pete definitely isn’t overthinking; Patrick’s sure of it. Pete just wanted a warm hand to rest against his dick, and Patrick had to do, since all the women he usually pined for were unavailable. Patrick just has to think more like Pete thinks. </p><p>
  <em> Doesn’t have to mean a thing...  </em>
</p><p>With this in mind, he doesn’t mention the handjobs again that evening, and after Pete has showered too, and they’ve settled into their usual spaces on the sofa, Patrick can almost fool himself into thinking that everything is completely normal. He can ignore the way the contact at their thighs is perhaps a little guarded, that their eyes don’t meet quite as often. They’re fine.</p><p>It doesn’t mean a thing. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks for reading and for your support, i really appreciate the kudos and comments! i'm aiming for a fortnightly update schedule, though no promises lol. hopefully see you again in two weeks though!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Don’t do anything stupid,” Pete says with mocking seriousness.</p><p>“When have I ever been stupid?”</p><p>“You looking for a list, or…?”</p><p>Patrick lets himself smile, kicking Pete softly in his ankle. “Fuck off.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>apologies, i said two weeks and it's been three; it's been a lot lately. i won't say when the next one will be up beyond a hopeful "soon".</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Two days after what Patrick is silently referring to as the Hand to Dick incident, he has the day off. The way he’s always being guilted into covering for sick co-workers, these days seem rarer than they should. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Usually, the furthest he’d venture would be the living room, playing his guitar alone if Pete was working, occasionally passing through cups of coffee to Pete’s desk in his bedroom, or else playing video games with Pete if they both had the day off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>have the day off today as well, and Patrick would love nothing more than to collapse onto the couch with him and get his ass handed to him in Mario Kart. But he can’t. He has to actually venture into like, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>wild </span>
  </em>
  <span>for the first time in months. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, if you like, we could burn it all,” Pete suggests as Patrick paces and occasionally glances at the clock, trying to decide whether he wants to turn up early or not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I already told her I’d meet her,” Patrick says, frowning down at the box in his arms. Then he turns to frown at Pete, who’s curled up on his half of the sofa, eyes on his phone. “And burn it where, exactly?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete looks up. They have no garden to speak of, not even the illusion of one on a balcony. “I don’t know. Kitchen trash can?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As much as the idea of setting the apartment on fire thrills me, I’m gonna try giving it all back first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick had texted Abby yesterday, telling her he had a box of a few things she might like back, and asking if she wanted to meet up at the park to collect them. He’d got a text back about an hour later: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’d like that. I feel like we should talk.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We should talk</span>
  </em>
  <span> is never a phrase you want to hear from anybody, but hearing it from an ex you don’t really want to talk to </span>
  <em>
    <span>at all</span>
  </em>
  <span> seems doubly awful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has at least given him a distraction away from thinking about Pete and the events of two days ago. Neither of them has mentioned the Hand to Dick incident, but Patrick feels like he keeps catching Pete staring at him when he thinks Patrick’s attention is elsewhere. Not that Patrick has any room to talk: Pete left the bathroom after his shower this morning, jeans on but shirt off, and Patrick felt like his eyes needed to be <em>clawed out</em> to avoid staring. He’s not really sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s probably sleep deprivation; he’s been reaching Pete levels of insomnia lately. Sleep deprivation can cause like, weird thoughts, right? That feels like it’s probably a thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello? Earth to Starman?” says Pete’s voice, and Patrick blinks away from the bizarre shirtless Pete thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said, I can go if you want,” offers Pete. “I don’t mind.”   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick’s almost tempted. The urge to let Pete deal with it, to shutter the world out and ignore his problems, is very inviting. But he can only imagine the arguments he’d miss, and it probably wouldn’t be worth it. Probably. “It’s fine, she… she says she wants to talk to me, anyway. So.” He clears his throat, checks the clock one last time, and sighs in a way that may be a touch more over dramatic than deserved. “I should get going.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t do anything stupid,” Pete says with mocking seriousness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When have I ever been stupid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You looking for a list, or…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick lets himself smile, kicking Pete softly in his ankle. “Fuck off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete just grins back as he gets to his feet. He looks for a moment like he wants to do something, say something. Though what exactly, Patrick isn’t sure. He settles for punching Patrick lightly on the arm, grinning in that way he does, like nothing matters but the space he occupies with Patrick, before heading through to the kitchen. “I’ll see you later, dude. Stay safe out there!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a hot Saturday afternoon and odd to see the park so bare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s seen it near empty before, sure, on recent walks with Hemmy when Pete was too busy or depressed to walk him, but he still somehow finds himself </span>
  <em>
    <span>expecting </span>
  </em>
  <span>to see crowds of people, friends out walking and laughing together with Starbucks in hand, or kids playing soccer on the grass, or families out together for a picnic. The only other person he sees, on his way to the bench he and Abby had agreed to meet at, is a lone dog walker who turns to cross the grass as soon as she sees him coming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels like the whole city has been suspended in time, like it should still be dawn despite the sun hanging high above him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t take long to spot Abby, sitting at the end of the bench, a long stretch of carefully crafted space beside her. Patrick feels the knots in his stomach tighten as he approaches, a different kind to the nerves he used to get when they first started dating.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Patrick sits himself down on the other side of the bench, placing down the box beside him. “Hi,” he mutters quietly behind his mask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can barely see any of her face behind her mask, but he thinks he might see something of a sad smile in her eyes. “Hi,” she replies softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um. I brought you your stuff,” he says quickly, as the awkward silence begins to stretch. He pushes the box over to the middle of the bench and Abby pulls it toward her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Abby picks up one of the photo frames on top, a picture of her, Patrick and Vicky, a friend of Abby’s, at a party last Christmas. She stares at the picture for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” she says, putting down the photo, and it sounds genuine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s…” Patrick sighs, running a hand through his hair. He isn’t wearing a hat out today, a rare occurrence he’s beginning to seriously regret. It makes him feel naked, not something he wants to feel around Abby anymore. “It’s okay,” he says, because he’s honestly gotten to a point where it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>mostly okay now, with Pete’s help.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not,” Abby says. “I need to talk to you. Properly, I mean.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” he says, letting out a breath. Abby is quiet for a long moment, and the way she keeps glancing down nervously, hands fidgeting against her lap, brings a terrifying thought into his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>—?” She doesn’t look any different, but maybe his mind’s forgotten what she looked like before. If she’s not showing, and he hasn’t slept with her in four months, and she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>pregnant</span>
  </em>
  <span>, could he still be the father? Oh fuck, he can’t be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>dad!</span>
  </em>
  <span> What the fuck—  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abby guesses what his panicked theory is immediately. “Nobody’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>pregnant</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Patrick,” she snaps. “Oh, my God.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Patrick feels his panic drain away somewhat. Abby sounds absolutely horrified he suggested it and he clears his throat, embarrassed. “Then, uh, what then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing nearly so life altering for you,” Abby says. “I just… I wanted to explain myself a little better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t have to,” says Patrick quickly. God, if he knew this would be a matter of Abby trying to explain away her cheating, he’d have let Pete come in his place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I do,” Abby insists. “It wasn’t—”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, it’s fine.” Patrick sighs, looking away from her, toward the trees and grass that stretch in front of them. He can still see that dog walker in the distance, getting smaller and smaller. “You were drunk and horny. He was there. I’ve heard it. I don’t—”     </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t a he.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick frowns, sure he misheard. He turns back to her. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause. If she weren’t wearing a mask, Patrick feels sure he’d be able to see a blush colouring her cheeks. “I had sex with Vicky, Patrick. That night. And, well. Not only that night. We’re... dating.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But… Vicky’s a girl,” Patrick replies, like a dumbass.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abby nods. “She is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Patrick turns back toward the park. The dog walker has gone now, nothing but a large empty park stretched in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really am sorry about… everything. I regret how it happened. I regret calling you… how I did, when I did. I shouldn’t have— I’d have done so many things differently, Patrick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were drunk,” Patrick says diplomatically, because that had been obvious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was, but... I don’t regret being with her. It would’ve happened any way I look at it.” There’s a small pause before she adds softly, “I love her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick finds he really doesn’t want to hear anymore than that. “Why are you telling me all this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abby shrugs. “I’ve been coming out to everyone. We were together for four years, and I— I figured I owe you this much, right? An explanation? I wanted to apologise, as face to face as we can right now. I just wanted you to know it’s… it was nothing to do with <em>you</em>, you know? And I'm so sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick let’s himself look at her, really look at her, and it’s hard to tell because he can only see the skin above her nose, her clear blue eyes, but he thinks she probably looks more comfortable, happier, than she did in the months before their split. Which is certainly saying something, considering the state of the world at the minute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, Abby says, carefully, “I also thought… more than anyone, you might... </span>
  <em>
    <span>get </span>
  </em>
  <span>it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never cheated,” he says immediately. “Not on you or anyone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I know.” Her ears turn pink. “I just mean… You and Pete.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick frowns. “What the hell has Pete got to do with anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, Vicky knows Gabe, and he obviously talks to Pete a lot. He said you and Pete are… living together now, and...” She trails off, obviously fully believing she doesn’t even need to finish that sentence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick’s face is growing warm; she’s implying something, he knows she is. “So?” He feels even more stripped down, somehow. Like Abby has an x-ray on him. Why the hell didn’t he bring his hat? He’s not sure it would help, but right now it feels like it might. Thank God for the mask. “What— What’s that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing!” Abby says quickly. “I just remembered how you—” She stops abruptly. “You know what? It doesn’t matter, I shouldn’t have said anything. How is Pete?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s fine. Why wouldn’t he be? Why are you bringing up </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pete?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Patrick resists the urge to get up and run home; he’s somehow confused, angry and terrified all in equal measure.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I was only asking, I didn’t mean— I know you and him are really close, and it’s okay if you’ve—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, that urge to run has officially won. “I should go,” Patrick interrupts, trying not to sound as hysterical as he feels, getting to his feet before she can say absolutely anything else.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Patrick, wait, you don’t have to—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enjoy your box, I’ll post anything else I find,” he says hurriedly, and turns to walk away. He doesn't look back, and she doesn't call out after him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The walk home is definitely less enjoyable than the walk there. The anger and confusion have morphed into an uneasy and bitter feeling he’s not entirely sure he has a right to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not...exactly jealousy that he’s feeling. Or is it? He’s mad. He’s pissed off with her, more than he was when he set off to the park, more even than when she called him up at one in the morning three months ago. He’s mad at her for being in love with somebody, but not because he wants her to be in love with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not sure why. He just knows he’s mad at her for bringing all of that up. And then bringing </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pete </span>
  </em>
  <span>up, like he has anything to do with anything at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not just that it was easier to imagine that she’d mistakenly, drunkenly hooked up with some faceless dude. It’s not that she’s with someone she loves, not really. If anything, he’s glad she has that, really he is — it’s just… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s in love with Vicky, her best friend, and fuck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why </span>
  </em>
  <span>did she have to bring up Pete? Beyond the confusion and the frustration, there’s this big ball of lonely sadness when he thinks of them together and when he thinks of Pete. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a feeling he wants to name. Quite frankly, it’s a feeling that terrifies him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Patrick?” comes Pete’s voice from the couch after Patrick has slammed the door behind him, slipping off his shoes and unmasking himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s me,” Patrick calls back, like it could be anybody else. They haven’t had a single guest over since one of Pete’s dates stayed the night in the first week of March.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d it go?” Pete asks. He’s spread out on the sofa, holding a Playstation controller, Hemmy cuddled up next to him. Crash Bandicoot is on the pause menu while Pete gives Patrick his full attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were right, we should’ve just burnt it all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That bad?” Pete winces. “Wanna talk about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick can think of few things worse than discussing with Pete everything Abby told him (and implied), honestly. “I’d rather just watch you lose at Crash,” he says, collapsing down next to Hemmingway, who turns himself round and begins licking Patrick’s face now he’s close enough.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete grins at him, holding up his controller. He snuggles around his dog, resting his head against Patrick’s shoulder.  “Don’t be jealous of my skill, Trick,” he says, before unpausing the game, missing a jump and dying immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They pass another lazy, quiet afternoon together. There are days when this kind of thing makes Patrick want to cry because it feels so unproductive, sitting and doing next to nothing. And yet anytime he tries to actually be productive, he’s kicked back by the pointlessness of it.        </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t play his guitar nearly as much as he used to, not because he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to play, or sometimes even </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>to play, but because knowing he can’t take it with him to a bar on Friday nights and perform to the small audience that often gathered there for him makes him want to cry even more than the unproductivity, somehow. It hurts not to really be able to share his music. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still though, he loves making music, he loves playing music, and whenever he isn’t working, he tries to find the time for it. So, he’s in his room later after dinner (mac and cheese, a speciality of Pete’s), tuning his guitar and struggling to write a new song he’s been working on.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not much of a song so far, and it won’t be at all if this musical block keeps up. He plays the first twenty seconds for what must be the thirtieth time today, hoping for inspiration to strike. Nothing happens and he struggles with the urge to throw something across the room. Not his guitar, obviously. But something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He settles for throwing a pillow at his door, which opens at just the right moment for it to hit Pete squarely in the chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete raises an eyebrow from the doorway. “I thought you were playing some beautiful melodies,” he says, amused. “Not fighting with pillows.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re lucky that wasn’t my phone,” Patrick replies darkly, pouting as he sinks back into his remaining pillows, hugging his guitar closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Just…” Patrick sighs, resting his chin on his guitar before admitting, “‘I dunno, ignore me. I’m just moping, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn. ‘Thought that was my thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, don’t mean to steal your thunder.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah.” Pete shrugs and leans back against the doorframe with half a smile. “I did my moping while you were gone earlier. You’re good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick puts his guitar away, leant against the wall by his bed, and sits back against the pillows. “Do you wanna… come hang out in here? We can watch a movie on my laptop?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete is already halfway across the room before Patrick’s finished asking. He shuffles closer to Patrick on the bed, their thighs touching. Trying to focus on music for the past hour has done a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad </span>
  </em>
  <span>job of letting him forget about everything complicated he has going on with Pete, and now of course, with a Pete on his bed, it’s far worse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thing is, Patrick has been thinking and he’s decided that any parallels between him and Pete, and Abby and Vicky are complete coincidence. Pete is just his </span>
  <em>
    <span>friend,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his best friend. His best friend who he’s maybe been thinking about in an inappropriate way lately, and maybe there’s a certain degree of lonely longing when he thinks about Pete for too long, but that’s all just like, pandemic insanity. Probably. Two dudes cooped up this long? It could happen to any guy.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what I was thinking about? While I was moping?” Pete asks, playing with a thread at the bottom of Patrick’s shirt and apparently oblivious to the battle going on Patrick’s head. “I was thinking about how </span>
  <em>
    <span>lucky </span>
  </em>
  <span>I am. If you hadn’t invited me to live with you back in February I’d probably have gone completely fucking insane by now. Like, more insane, I mean. I’d be so much fucking lonelier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick swallows, watching the curve of Pete’s smile. His eyes still seem lonely, but Patrick can’t help but think he’s probably right: they’d be far lonelier if Pete didn’t have this. “I’m glad I help,” he says softly. "You should never be lonely."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You help </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>much, dude.” His hand moves away from Patrick’s shirt, onto his hip. “But you know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick stills, the point where Pete’s hand meets his hip suddenly the only part of his body he can feel. His heart is loud in his ears all of a sudden. “Pete,” he whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What we did the other night—” Pete visibly swallows before asking quietly, “Do you… want to— again?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick opens his mouth, then abruptly closes it again. His brain feels like it’s conjured a Windows error message. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just thought, you know,” Pete says quickly, his hand hovering above Patrick’s thigh. “You need cheering up, right? I can help with that. I mean, we could watch a movie or something, that’s fine, but… Like, if you wanted to, it was fun the other night, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Patrick nods. It was fun. It was very fun. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>fun he’s been able to think of little else. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>fun he’s avoided masturbating because he knows exactly what his mind will wander back to. And that’s sort of really, really scary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete’s hand moves gently between Patrick’s thighs, stopping just below his crotch, hesitant. Pete is asking permission and Patrick doesn’t want to leave any doubt; he guides Pete’s hand back upward, lets him feel how hard he is. “Yes,” he says hoarsely. “We should </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>do this.” He adds quickly, “To cheer me up. It’s... been a rough day.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete’s smile turns into a grin. “I can make you forget all about today,” he says, full of confidence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he definitely does as promised. Pete rolls over, a knee between Patrick’s legs. Patrick’s jeans are too tight for Pete to easily reach a hand into his boxers, so he undoes his button and fly and frees Patrick’s cock, and Patrick’s forgetting what he did today, yesterday, or any amount of time before right now, right this second, with Pete. He doesn’t even tell Pete off for very obviously looking right at his dick as he lets his hand run along its length.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete is good at this, at stroking Patrick off — he’s so good, his fingers quick and gentle in a way that makes Patrick </span>
  <em>
    <span>ache</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And Patrick finds himself wondering — harmless fantasy, meaning nothing — what else Pete is good at. He’s probably never sucked a dick before, but Patrick thinks he could probably get good at that fast; he has that kind of confidence and eagerness and pretty, pretty lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pete—” he mutters, and he bites his lip so hard he almost draws blood — he’d fully been about to ask Pete to suck him off, caution be damned. But there’s apparently a smarter, less insane, less fun part of his brain still working. He obviously can’t ask that, even in his sex adled, stupid state of harmless, meaningless fantasy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Patrick,” Pete whispers back, and Patrick turns to face him. His eyes are dark and there’s sweat visible at his hairline, his breaths are quick and Patick can’t remember seeing anyone looking better. If he were more coherent and less horny he might start overthinking that, but Patrick is too close to care. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not sure when his own hands started roaming, but he’s got his fingers wrapped around Pete’s very hard cock inside his sweatpants. Somehow he’s making Pete moan with hitched breaths against Patrick’s neck. Patrick can feel the press of his lips against the skin of his throat; it’s not a kiss — or at least, that’s what he’s telling himself.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Patrick’s coming hard against Pete’s hand, gritting his teeth down hard to keep from calling out Pete’s name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete has fewer qualms about this apparently, whispering, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” against Patrick’s chest as they collapse into each other, boneless and spent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s quiet for several long moments, which Pete breaks when he glances up at Patrick, eyes incredibly soft. “You,” Pete says. “Did you know you have a wonderful fucking face, Patrick? And a wonderful dick? God...” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick doesn’t know what that means, and he’s too afraid it’s an awful joke to ask, so he stays quiet. There’s a strange tension in his gut he’d been free to ignore before, that’s growing more and more persistent in the aftermath, in the way Pete shuffles himself closer, snuggled against Patrick’s side, in how Patrick’s reaction is to pull back up his boxers but kick off his jeans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It gets worse as Pete smiles at him, warm and content, and Patrick thinks: what would it be like to kiss the corners of that smile? He wants to try it, he realises. He wants to pull Pete forward and kiss him until neither of them can breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that single thought alone is enough to turn the brimming tension into a flood of panic as he fully grasps what kind of urge that is, just how easy that could be to do. He could lean forward and— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick pulls quickly back, untangling himself from Pete’s hold and falling back against the other pillow. He turns away from Pete. He turns away because if he keeps looking at Pete he’s going to fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>kiss </span>
  </em>
  <span>him, but it barely helps; he still somehow sees Pete’s silhouette, his soft lips against the shadows on the wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should probably get to your own room,” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t betray him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh?” Pete sounds confused. “Now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m pretty tired,” Patrick lies. “I’ll probably shower and then just go straight to bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not even eight yet. You don’t wanna watch a movie or something? I’ll let you choose. You wanted to finally watch that Elton John thing, right? Let’s watch that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m tired,” Patrick repeats. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, c’mon.” Pete inches closer again, the press of his hand against Patrick’s hip. “Just half an hour—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pete,” Patrick snaps, louder than he means to, the panic of Pete getting closer echoing through his voice, “Get lost. I said I’m tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pete’s hand disappears abruptly. “Right,” he says, far quieter. “Sorry. I’ll… I’ll see you in the morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a shift, a squeak of bedsprings and quiet rustle of bedsheets as Pete removes himself from Patrick’s bed. Patrick stays very still; it feels, almost, like if he moves, if he lets Pete know in any way that he’s anything less than exhausted, then Pete will somehow know </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soft footsteps pad across the carpet before a significant pause. “You know, it’s…” Pete’s voice pauses, and Patrick pictures him standing awkwardly at the doorway, watching the back of Patrick’s head. “It’s okay. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not— This isn’t weird. My opinion of you is the same. You’re still my best friend… right?” There’s a long pause, in which Patrick continues to stare at the wall, unanswering. “Patrick?” Pete says, his voice far smaller now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Patrick says quickly, not looking back at him. “I know, dude. Totally. Bros. I… I’m just tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” says Pete. “Of course. Well, goodnight, man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick waits several seconds, until he can hear the clatter of cups from the kitchen that shares his wall, before he finally allows himself to release a breath and flop onto his back, staring up at the grey ceiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. Maybe this is more complex than previously thought.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you for reading! comments and kudos are lovely.  </p><p>come say hi on <a href="https://1833outboy.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> if you'd like.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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